The following
account, dated roughly
two thousand years
before the rise of Malicent
the Dark Witch, has been
translated from
the older Vampiric dialect
for a modern audience.
Certain liberties
have been taken with text
and speech to allow for
better accessibility.

There was naught but
gravel on the ground,
and a stench in the
air that might have turned the
whole of creation on itself in
disgust.
Amid the gloom of both the
late hour and the exhaust from
the fissures
in the earth that led to the
mines, one could see perhaps
ten miles
off, perhaps twenty with
fairer eyesight. Such
conditions were not
idyllic, not even ideal, but
they were life, and the
Vampires that
marched behind the lord Dracon
had no qualms with them.

Ahead through the fog
and steam they could
see the outpost, a
small fort, four towers rising
on the corners of a cubed
building. All
elegant and deadly curves,
spiked with menace. Arranged
around it was a
small retinue of defenses,
some catapults and barricades;
it was meant
to defend.

Within hours, the
forces following Dracon
proved it was not
meant to stand, and through
that noxious gloom the
Imperial city of the
Vampires could at last be
seen.

"Farven and Gresith
have made camp within
the north and
southeast respectively, my
lord. Farven claims that his
armies are well
on their way to readiness; he
expects to attack within
days."

Dracon stood with a
straight back, hands
held tightly behind
him, staring with gray eyes at
the map of the Imperial Vale
dominating
the table. To the north and
south he could see the
positions that his
allies had occupied;
immediately east of his
position was the great
fortress they were all there
to conquer. Beyond the edges
of the great
earthen bowl the map was
marked with several
indicators, the places
Dracon's additional forces
would occupy within a week's
time.

"Order
Farven to
withhold his attack until I
command such," he said without
emotion.

"Yes, lord. Gresith
claims that he has
encountered minimal
resistance, despite the
vulnerability of the castle's
southern
entrance."

Dracon shook his head;
no other part of
his body moved. "That is
of no concern. Tell Gresith to
maintain a steady watch, I do
not trust
Xerxen to be as incompetent as
we would like."

"Yes, lord. As for the
palace itself, most
of its defenses are
as we projected." His
lieutenant's hand hovered over
the map, a pale
finger pointing to several
locations on the fortress.
"There is a
greater concentration of
watchtowers here, here, and
here than were
anticipated, but Xerxen has
added no more bombardment
towers." The
lieutenant looked up, his
milky face taut with the focus
Dracon had
demanded of him since he was
recruited almost a year ago in
the opening
skirmishes of the war. This
was not a man that Dracon
trusted; there
were no men that Dracon
trusted. However, he liked the
lieutenant, much
as he was capable of liking
anyone. The man had a tactical
temerity and
battlefield economy that
Dracon could respect.

"Then I want as many
siege weapons as can
be built at this
point," the Vampire lord
ordered. "I have no intention
of being slowed
by watchtowers."

"Yes, lord." The
lieutenant bowed low,
swept up the maps in a
rustle, and motioned sharply
for the rest of Dracon's
command staff to
follow him from the chamber.
Dracon himself remained where
he was,
coldly unmoving, until they
had all dispersed. Then he
removed his
hands from his back, formed
them into fists, and placed
them solidly on
the now bare table, leaning
against them, staring without
cause into
the rivets of the wood.

The fort was cold. All
day he had felt its
air washing his skin
and turning it stiff. Vampiric
blood was a thick substance,
it was part
of what made his species so
adverse to light and flame;
for him to feel
a chill was a small
achievement in and of itself.
Or perhaps it was not
his skin, his blood, or the
fort he had assumed command of
not
twenty-four hours ago.

With an odd reluctance,
he looked away
from the table and its
grooves to an immense map
dominating the wall to his
right, a crude
image of all Vempirus. He
walked over lightly and ran a
scarred finger
over the scratched parchment.
It was with incredible recall
and a
mixture of revulsion and
triumph that he could touch
any number of
images on the map and remember
how he had conquered them. The
northern
wastes, where he had begun his
campaign, where he had forced
his clan
and its rivals to bow to his
will and follow him to victory
or death.
The Triad, a group of
viscounties where he had
personally defeated
three of the greatest Vampire
lords and gained the loyalty
of two of
them. The Vartka Fields in the
Imperial south, where he had
outmaneuvered and destroyed
the greatest armies of the
Vampire Empire
and secured the path of his
domination. And now he lay on
the empire's
very doorstep, the fortress of
the capital city overshadowing
him and
those he had rallied or
enslaved to his cause.

Yet when he moved
across the room, from
the map to the arched
window—when he breathed in
sulfurous gases thick enough
to choke and
pungent enough to turn the
stomach of a lesser being, and
beheld in the
land around the fort the army
massing in his name—the
crawling chill he
felt on his skin was not
nearly equal to the chill
dissatisfaction
produced in his heart.

He reached into a pouch
on his belt,
withdrew a lone glove, and
slid it over his left hand.
The leather whined as he
clenched it into a
fist.

"You are troubled, my
lord."

Dracon tensed at the
noise, but made no
further movement.
Nistetha was there, he had
forgotten. She emerged from
the corner he
had bade her occupy until the
conference was done; lithely
she came to
him, the sound of her steps
indistinguishable from the
rustle of her
gown, its hem collecting dust
as she closed on him, her face
at once
curious and challenging.
Looking at her, Dracon let his
fisted hand
rest on the window sill.

"I fear seeing you so
distracted, Lord
Dracon. What is it? You
have reached the city, at
last. The Xerxens cannot hold
against you.
That they attempt is the more
ridiculous. What worries you,
my master?"
She brought a long-nailed hand
to the edge of his cheek, and
it was
there Dracon had enough. He
grabbed that hand's wrist, and
in a single
movement had her by the
throat; with two steps they
were back to the
table, and the hand at her
throat pinned her to the wood.

"My clan was among the
weakest in the
northern viscounties. Do
you remember this, Nistetha? I
was born into chaos and
disorder, the
northern clans warring with
each other constantly while
the viscounts
sat on thrones of shaer-rock,
laughing at our petty
squabbles over
power that didn't exist!"

Nistetha's eyes
narrowed, but she said
nothing, not even as
Dracon dragged her, throat and
wrist, over to a chair and
forced her
into it. He came to his knees,
still overpowering her.

"I came to our chief,
told him my
thoughts. From my youth, I had
seen the Empire for what it
was. Hedonistic,
overconfident, relying on
the weakness of the wandering
clans to keep order. There was
no glory
in this, no greatness in our
people. But my clan chief had
me seized
and tortured for my
insubordination. ‘The Vampire
Empire is all that is
holy, and by His Will we shall
serve it,' he said to me. I
killed him
not for power, but because he
was weak!"

His grip on her throat
tightening, Dracon
lifted her from the
chair. "Our Master did not
wish this! An Empire resting
on its laurels,
pitting its people against
each other for the sake of
control! We were
created to conquer, but the
Fairies and other wretches sit
contented in
their lands while we die
slowly!"

"I know this, my lord—"

"Then your eyes are
useless!" He released
her wrist, and smacked
her to the floor. Nistetha
spat out blood, her lilac gown
stained, and
glared at Dracon hungrily as
he grabbed her with both hands
and forced
her face into the map of
Vempirus.

"Until this empire is
at its zenith once
more, until it is
unified in mind and body,
until it is strong again—!"
He threw
her to the ground, and
Nistetha licked her lips of
the blood, her stare
still challenging.

Dracon snarled down at
her with disgust.
"Until we regain our
original strength, glorious in
the sight of the Master, I
will be
troubled." He turned his back
on her, the left hand in
leather clenched
once more. "By His Will," he
cursed, and without another
word stalked
toward the door.

Nistetha remained on
the floor, smiling in
delighted agony,
until he called back to her,
"Come. You will lay with me."
Then she
stood and disrobed, and
followed the future emperor of
the Vampires to
his quarters.

In the morning Dracon
rode with his
command to an overlook in
the north. His lizard mount
writhed under him , bounding
onto the
promontory where he could at
last see over the foggy
exhaust and behold
Vempirus City.

His forces were already
amassing at the
edge of the Imperial
Vale, the great earthen bowl
that dipped into the land and
created a
broad ring around the Plateau
of Byrdav, an effective
waterless moat.
Strategically difficult to
maneuver, the Imperial Vale
drew armies in
and did not let them leave
easily; from atop Byrdav, the
city could
bombard with ease. But the
Vale was not impassable, the
city
invulnerable, or Dracon's
forces so easily routed.

"How many siege
trains?" he asked his
lieutenant. The man's
shata bounded up next to
Dracon's, the powerful lizards
serving as a
signal of Dracon's intent to
rule. His own shata had been
taken from
the Imperial breeding grounds
themselves.

"Nearing a hundred. Our
force constitutes
roughly half that in
ballistae and catapults.
Farven has brought up the
number of rams
available, he claims the
northern gates have stronger
defenses than
we'd initially projected."

"And Gresith?"

The lieutenant rarely
hesitated.
"Gresith…claims his force can
enter from the south
immediately, he's devoted
little time to
construction. More soldiers
from his viscounty are
arriving this
morning."

The squelch of Dracon's
leathered hand on
the reins of his shata
mixed with the dissatisfaction
of his growl. "Gresith is to
make no
such move, under any
circumstances. Relay this to
him, and ensure he
understands."

"Yessir." The
lieutenant shouted to his
own subordinate, who
rushed off with the order.
"Permission to speak openly,
milord."

"Granted."

"Gresith has ever been
the fool. He would
have thrown his lot in
with the Xerxens at Galjah
Plains had you not conquered
Farven and
Tohmbe first."

"And that is why I
conquered
Farven and Tohmbe first."
Dracon tore his gaze from the
black spires of the city,
glancing
emotionlessly at his
lieutenant. "Do not waste my
time with information
I am already aware of, that is
not why you are here."

"Yes, lord. Forgive
me."

"You are forgiven."

This man was
replaceable, Dracon thought,
as replaceable as any
other in his armies. His
skills, while advanced, were
not unique. But
his loyalty was unquestioning,
and Galjah Plains would not be
the last
time the lieutenant endangered
himself to save Dracon's life.

"How long did you serve
the Xerxens?"
Dracon asked, rubbing the
gray scales of his shata to
keep it calm.

"Several years, lord.
My family's history
is service to the
Empire. My eldest known
grandfather was serving when
the Xerxens
assumed the throne. The
weakness and virulence of
their dynasty can be
traced through my lineage. And
mine is not the only lineage
to be
traced." Dracon felt the
lieutenant's eyes on his back.
"Your vision is
magnificent, my lord. Some say
those words to you out of
fear, or
desire for favor. But your
vision is magnificent.
The Xerxens
will never stand against you."

Dracon glared at
Vempirus City again, the
great ring of its
outer wall, lined with defense
towers. The spiked buildings
that ran
backwards and became the great
towers of the palace. He
breathed in the
stench of the mines and once
more regarded his lieutenant.

"I told you not to
waste my time with
information I am already
aware of."

The lieutenant
straightened in his saddle.
Emotion could still
be seen on his face, his sheer
happiness unfazed. "Yes, lord.
Forgive
me."

"You are forgiven."

Dracon glanced to
Nistetha on her own
mount, the scars from
their mating vibrant in the
muted light of day. She
grinned hungrily at
him, baring her fangs. She was
ready for blood, had intuited
it from
Dracon's own posture that he
was too. She had worn that
same expression
the first time she'd tried to
assassinate him.

How many will you
send against me, so
that they might learn
of your feebleness, Xerxen?
How much of my conquest is your
doing?

As they came down from
the promontory,
Dracon could see the
eagerness in his woman's eyes.
He said, "And what of you,
Nistetha?
What form will your vengeance
take once we have stormed the
gates and
Xerxen begs at our feet?"

"I am no royal
assassin, my lord. And
Xerxen lost the allegiance
of my guild in his betrayal at
the Vartka Fields. I would see
him
suffer, as any true Vampire
would, but I would just as
soon see you
protected, my lord. That shall
be my chief priority."

Dracon allowed her to
see his grip tighten
on the reins. "Do I
need protecting, Nistetha?"

"Of course not, my
lord. I need an excuse
to be present when you
tear Xerxen's pathetic heart
from his chest."

Through the noxious
gloom of the Imperial
Vale, Dracon boomed a
laugh.